


Bunheads

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn poly bingo 2017 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - High School, Bisexual Sam, Bottom Sam, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Multi, Polyamory, Teenage Rebellion, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: A bunhead is simply a dancer, but one who goes above and beyond just taking class—she lives, eats, breathes, and sleeps (and dates) ballet. Her days are packed with rehearsals, and if she’s in high school, she’s the girl allowed to leave campus three hours early to attend to her future career. (via)Square 2/24: "Sam".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone is 17-ish.

“So, city center, huh? That’s far, dude.”

Sam tries a confident smile, one-shoulder-shrugs under the weight of his backpack.

“I could drive you.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got my bike, so.”

Brady’s smile widens, softens. “Mine is motorized though.”

Time is ticking. Sam is aware of it, wishes he wasn’t. Feels the sweat in his pits, his palms; holds onto his backpack straps. “I need it to get home after training,” he confides. “My curfew starts at nine.”

“Then I’ll drive you home, too.”

“You—” Sam laughs, flings his head to his right to stare at something else than Brady. “You’d have to wait for, for three hours. You don’t have to—”

“Why, no visitors allowed?”

Sam’s eyes drop to his feet. “…Why would you wanna watch? It’s pretty boring from the outside.”

“Listen,” Brady sighs, and Sam looks up to him once more; shyly. “Let me do this for you, okay? I swear I won’t disturb anyone. Or anything.”

~

Jess’ hand brushes his shoulder butterfly-idly. “Is that him?”

Sam replies nothing, simply turns a little redder.

(His heart is still skipping from having hugged Brady throughout the ride to the studio.)

She flicks another subtle glance, smirks, whispers, “Cute,” and then the teacher enters and Sam’s world is reduced to the radius of his own limbs.

~

Part of Sam dreads finding out Brady vanished, another wishes for it.

When he emerges from the studio, he’s still there though, leaning against his motorbike, two helmets in hand, smiling when he finds Sam in the small crowd of girls.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“That was some pretty impressive shit.”

The usual exhaustion is layered with something else; Sam is trembling. “You watched all of it?”

“Yup.” He hands Sam one helmet, keeps the other. “How long have you been doing this?”

Sam secures the helmet, closes its clip under his chin. “Ballet? Uhm, twelve years or so.”

Brady whistles and Sam’s stomach clenches with it.

“Thanks for driving me,” reminds Sam, quiet and huddled close and it’s always coldest post-shower, pre-home; thirty minute bike ride—with Brady it won’t take much longer than fifteen at the most.

Brady assures, “It’s nothing,” tugs his helmet on and gestures Sam to sit behind him, like earlier. Doesn’t grab for him, doesn’t exactly order him to do anything. His smile, his warmth, is invitation enough.

Holding onto a broad back, Sam almost can smell leather, but Brady wears a jeans jacket instead and Dean only ever takes girls out on rides anymore nowadays. Sam’s knees go inwards while Brady’s slide open; pressed together.

Brady asks where to go and Sam, for one or two ugly moments, considers giving him a wrong address, something in a nicer neighborhood. But Brady just sat through three hours of ballet. Also keeps being nice, patient, and it seems genuine. So Sam tells the truth (at least what’s necessary of it)—and, yeah, Brady simply says, “Got it,” no further comment.

“Thank you,” Sam repeats, on his legs again but hand idling where he sat, just behind Brady, warm and safe and this has never happened before, not with anyone but the girls—to feel like this.

Brady replies, “It’s been fun,” and for a second Sam thinks he’s leaning in to kiss him, but he’s really only turning to look up the apartment building. “You live far out, huh.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s knees feel like buckling.

“Oh shit. Your bike is still at school.”

Sam’s head droops, he’s smirking. “I guess.”

Brady is smirking right back. “Oh no. What are you gonna do now, huh?”

“Hm. Can you pick me up tomorrow?”

“I can.”

A sticky note on the fridge says there’s leftover casserole and to leave some for Dad, high heels in the doorway and obvious noises from Dean’s room and Sam scrunches his nose, grabs three apples and peanut butter and a knife and a bowl and then it’s his room, his key, his headphones.

Baby slices of apple, every single one with a fine spread of peanut butter—Sam prepares it kneeling, phone charging and blaring Beethoven all at once. He’s gnawing on his lips before the apples replace them. One quick check on the clock—five past nine.

Another three hours of homework before he can close his eyes again, relive today again, before he falls under.

~

Out of the three of them, Anna smokes most (and fastest), talks least. Holds Jess’ hand whenever she can, little finger or whole palm, doesn’t matter; flirts fingers around Sam’s elbow or shoulder or knuckles, always the bony parts, like she needs to crawl under his skin.

She’s quiet, listens to Sam and Jess doing their little cross fire style thing. Anna is probably just as curious as her, but in contrast to Jess was brought up in demureness.

“You can bring him over, next time.”

“I don’t even know if I… Christ, Jess.”

“It’s all over your face,” adds Anna then, and both Sam and Jess turn to her at it, surprised and flattered and, hell, this fire wasn’t supposed to spread.

“You like him,” smiles Jess.

“It’s weird.” Sam takes another hurried drag, blows the smoke sideways. The loose curl from Jess’ ponytail is driving him _insane_. “He makes me nervous.”

“Duh.” Jess elbows him, still smirking. “That’s how these things work.”

“No. It was different with you.”

Jess explains, “It’s different with _every_ one,” before flicking her smoke away.

~

The sound of someone banging their locker shut still makes Sam jump, even today, and Brady eyes him in what looks pity, so Sam straightens himself, brushes it off, sorry.

“I’m starving. Cafeteria?”

Sam’s thoughts drift down his gullet and jump back up. “If you want.”

“My treat.”

Sam stiffens. He fingers the insides of his too-long hoodie sleeves. “I…I can’t really…”

Brady does that thing where he seems to be able to read Sam, like, look under his shell, see the ugly parts—and then goes softer, kinder, so gentle Sam grows the urge to throw himself into those arms and cry for a few days, never come back out. It’s not good, but it’s addicting.

“What do you like to eat? Anything. My treat, Sam.”

Brady doesn’t comment the choice of banana and apple. No, instead carefully proposes a soda, they have diet types too, Coke zero, who doesn’t like coke, c’mon, it’s like dessert.

And it is. It is.

Sam shows him the spot where he’s usually waiting for break to be over—the bleachers in the gym, the hollowness underneath, and Brady climbs in with him with his big trustful eyes and huge hands and bologna sandwich in his paper bag, regular Sprite, chocolate bar.

The air is staler here with two people and Sam is ashamed. Eats extra-slow because his stomach flips weirdly when he’s with Brady, because this is dangerous and wonderful and he’s got too many unsaid words inside of him, too much.

“Is it even allowed to be in here?”

Sam dimples up in mischief.

Brady laughs behind his hand. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Thanks again for yesterday.”

Brady combs his hair back over his head, leans back against the wall some more, tippy nose and bologna breath and god he’s handsome. Sam can’t truly grasp the fact yet that after moving to this school, out of everyone (and he could have decided for anyone, seriously) Brady decided to make friends with the Ballet Faggot (quote, unquote). “Don’t mention it. It was cool, seeing you guys practice.”

“That was, uhm. We didn’t even, it wasn’t even a good session, really.”

“Dude, it was mind-blowing.” Another small laugh, like Brady’s just _filled_ with it. “I can’t even touch my toes while standing up. You guys’re magicians to me.”

“It’s all practice,” assures Sam, stomach heavy and ears already tipped pink but he’s overeager (his biggest flaw) and stretches his legs out into a wide V without being asked to, bends at the waist until his forearms rest flat on the floor on the insides of his knees.

Brady stares.

Sam peeks up over his shoulder; feels his pants riding low but his hoodie is long enough to keep him covered. “I’ve been doing this stuff since elementary school.”

Brady places a polite moment before asking, “Can you do splits, too?”

Sam doesn’t have the patience left to even raise an eyebrow before shuffling into position.

~

Brady’s mouth tastes like food, but that’s not what Sam is most afraid of.

He’s really fucking hard in his jeans from making out for the entirety of twenty seconds and Brady is about to hitch his fingers around his waist, and that’s where Sam has to break.

He’s not a monster, he isn’t. “I have, uhm, I have two girlfriends.”

“Oh,” says Brady, immediately and barely even sounds surprised, a bare automatic response before he scoots back a bit and obviously _thinks_ , lets the information _sink in_ before he repeats, “ _Oh_ ,” way more confused right now. “O…okay?”

“It’s, it’s not like. I mean, we’re not exclusive, it’s. I just think you need to know that about me, before.”

“A little too late for that, bug.”

Sam feels like crying about the way Brady mushes their noses together, brow lightly knitted and warm, warm.

“So, like. An open thing?”

“Something like that,” breathes Sam.

There now definitely are hands around Sam’s waist. He can feel Brady’s thumbs digging in. “Tell me more. I want to understand.”

Rule number one is that they don’t talk about it with anyone.

Rule number two: no secrets (between the three of them).

These are their rules. Sam got them explained, once, when he became part of them, when they allowed him into their circle. A conspiracy, a secret society of—now—three.

If there was any reason to Mom’s death, it’s that Dad didn’t have the heart to deny his youngest the ballet lessons, and that he took a second job to upgrade him to the new and better studio. Jess and Anna had been there for some time when Sam dropped in. Anna had proudly announced that they have been together since third grade; as friends only back then, of course.

Sam’s been with them for four years now, and nothing comes between the girls and him.

And now there’s Brady, here, holding him like a girlfriend and kissing him like one, too.

If Sam had the guts, he’d jump to wrap his legs around the guy.

~

Sam is choking on his heart because he’s got Brady hooked into his arm and on Jess’ doorstep, with Jess staring Brady down, hand on the doorknob and ready to close it on him. If that’s what she’d decide to be right.

“Brady,” he croaks, “this is Jessica.”

“Hey,” she says and, “Hey,” Brady says.

Then, Jess takes a step back and to the side. Gestures them inside.

Passing the threshold is like entering another world, really.

Jess’ house smells clean and warm. Her mom’s heavy perfume still lingers in the air, thins out when they walk up the stairs. Jess is in too-big summer pajamas that flutter around her thin-thin frame.

They’re all living and breathing ballet in their own ways (and, admittedly, obsessively as much as therapeutically), but Jessica is the one taking it least seriously—she also is the best of them.

She’s an artist, no doubt. She prefers long skirts over tutus, has been on the fence about the studio allowing their students to wear their hair down instead of in buns all the time. Jessica also is the only one of them who dances outside of the actual classes, for fun.

Things are better ever since her dad left. Her mom slowly is recovering from the divorce, too, doesn’t worry too much about what her straight-A-student daughter does in her room.

Again, Jess is the one touching the doorknob, turns to look at Brady first, at Sam later. Her blonde corkscrew curls spill over her shoulder.

“Nothing is off limits. When anybody doesn’t enjoy or want something, we stop. How’s that sound to you, Brady? Okay?”

Sam can hear Brady’s throat click. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Great,” Jess says before she opens the door.

Anna is in her pajamas, too, sits Indian style in the middle of their two mattresses, idly smoking what smells like her third or fifth cigarette. Looking like a movie star, a fairy, her sight relaxes Sam immediately.

Tuesdays are girls days; Dad is working too late to care about Sam’s curfew and Dean is in favor of him being out and about anyway.

Sam is shoving out of coat and boots long before he distantly hears Jess instructing, “Just drop your stuff on a pile, we usually put it over there.”

Anna leans back as Sam nears, sliding out of his hoodie and into her radius.

“Hey, sweet stuff.”

“Hey, baby.” He kneels for a kiss and a drag from her smoke, brushes his hand from temple to neck to barely-covered shoulder. “Jess said you said it’s okay?”

“Don’t you worry about me.” She hands him the pack of smokes.

Sam flops down next to her, lights his cigarette, takes a first deep lungful; groans for it. The mattress dips in behind him and Jess’ hair falls over his shoulder as she helps herself, big-spoons him, hand on his chest.

Sam’s eyes drag up to Brady who remained standing in the middle of the room, and, admittedly, seems pretty helpless.

He sucks on his cig harder, flicks his eyes away in embarrassment.

This is so fucking new.

Fuck. He has no idea how to do any of this.

“You two should stick together for now.” Anna pats Sam’s head before she crawls around them to cuddle up behind Jess.

“You’re Anna?”

“I am,” she says.

“Hi. Brady.”

She giggles as she shakes his awkwardly offered hand. “Yeah, I know. You smoke?”

“No. But it’s fine.” Brady finally, finally takes his seat next to Sam, half-up on his elbow, slightly tense and most probably overwhelmed by the situation.

“Sorry,” Sam gasps, “I didn’t know, we can, we can stop if—”

“I said it’s fine, bug.”

Sam squirms on the nickname, on the thought of having shed his beloved hoodie—before he realizes Brady saw him in his ballet gear and thus _knows_ how slim he is (and still kissed him, still came here).

Ashes spill because Sam is too nervous to use the ashtray right, bites his lips in a curse and hears Anna’s child-giggle, flushes, hears Brady’s soft chuckle of an exhale.

“I had no idea you’re a smoker.”

“We only do it here,” Sam admits. “None of our parents knows.”

“Or allows,” adds Anna.

“We buy them with money Anna sneaks from the offertory.”

“Jess!”

Jess laughs.

“Super church-y family,” Sam explains for Brady. “Her dad’s a real dick, he deserves it.”

Brady smiles over to Anna. “Uh-huh? Nice necklace.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Anna brushes her hair to the sides to display the dainty golden cross necklace, the promise of her breasts under the almost-see-through pajama top.

“We’ll turn it into a belly piercing piece eventually,” Jess explains in between drags, gets a kiss behind her ear for that and reaches behind herself to put her hand on Anna’s hip.

The longer they are together, the more relaxed both Sam and Brady become; actually, Brady seems more comfortable than him.

Sam could scream. That this is working out so well—he never would have dreamed of it. How does he deserve to be this lucky?

Brady runs his fingers up and down Sam’s arm, some nameless artistic movie playing that Jess had picked out (“The use of light is so abstract, you guys _need_ to see this.”) and Jess is snuggled up against his back, Anna’s arms caught between Jess’ belly and Sam’s back.

Sam gets his face turned by his chin so Brady can kiss him, all sweet and still faintly tasting like pizza he must have had before coming to pick Sam up.

Sam’s mouth sighs open without further thought, and Brady’s tongue tastes even better than his lips.

Curling and shuffling happens until Sam’s got one leg thrown over Brady’s hip, tucked so close to him he must be able to feel Sam’s pulse in his stomach (Sam can feel Brady’s and is so so relieved to find it in the same pace as his own). Brady is grazing naked skin now, barely-slipped under Sam’s tee, and Sam is glad they only have candle light going because Brady can’t see the bad condition of his clothes that way.

Sam’s stomach flips as those fingers dare to go up higher, brush his ribs, belly,  ribs again, then nestle over his nipple, and the first thumbing motion already makes him shudder.

Brady’s lips twitch but he doesn’t say a thing; the movie is still playing and the soft kissing and rustling behind Sam announce that nobody in the room is watching anymore.

Sam has Brady’s face cupped with both hands, traces the edges of his jaw, his cheekbones. “You’re so pretty.”

Brady grunts. “Have you even seen _yourself_? Jesus.”

Sam blushes harder, squirms his jeans-clad erection against Brady’s.

Brady mirrors the motion all the while he murmurs as if in apology, “I’ve never…with a guy…”

“Me neither,” breathes Sam, and he’s relieved, terrified, blissed out, all of it.

“You guys are still _dressed_?”

Jess helps Brady to strip Sam of his tee and Sam dies ten ways under Brady’s hungry eyes, the way he seems to eat him up. “Yeah, I like this better, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, babe.”

All Sam has to do is tilt his head so that he can latch onto her breast, cup the excess with his hand; can feel her sigh and Brady tense, twitch against his cock. She pets Sam’s hair while he suckles, kneads her, and Brady is quick to catch up and nudges his nose against Sam’s neck, plucks on Sam’s nipple with thumb and forefinger now.

Sam groans around the flesh in his mouth, tries to roll over to his back so Brady can get both at the same time. He does, and Brady does. Someone is undoing Sam’s belt now; must be Anna.

“Mmh, Brady,” she coos, and one tug is all she needs to pull both jeans and underwear down Sam’s thighs. “You made him all wet.”

Sam shudders out some more as if he had anything to prove; can feel Brady heating up some more against his side, lets go of Jess’ tit so he can look at Brady, get kissed by him.

Brady mouths, “Can I touch it?” to which Sam can only reply, “Please, yeah.”

Brad’s hands feel not much different from a girl’s, especially Jess’ who’s got huge hands, really, but the way he wraps it around Sam’s cock is another world. The girls, after all, don’t have any comparison, can’t know what it’s like to have their dick held.

Sam’s hand immediately flutters to the fly of Brady’s jeans, feels him up, hard, to which Brady groans, shoves his hips out harder, drops his head to put his mouth on the nipple his hand can no longer take care of.

Sam’s legs fall open wide; one hand on the back of Brady’ head, the other roaming around Jess’ chest, tugging and playing and she gasps under a squelch Anna must be responsible for.

They have to take a short break to rid Brady of his clothes, sitting up and impatiently kissing all the while. Sam’s cock feels like some exclamation point, misses being played with instantaneously (the girls would barely let go of it as soon as they would be in their room). There’s a short struggle of who shoves who to lie down on their back and Sam ends up losing, gets his face cupped and his hair stroked and Brady seriously kisses like Heaven, more powerful and sharper than the girls do and it throws him off and excites him all at once, makes him want to catch up, play along.

He can feel Brady full body shudder at the first tug to his now naked cock.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Can I blow you?”

Sam’s head is spinning. “Uh, uh-huh.”

With Brady’s descent comes a shadow, comes Jess who throws her leg over Sam’s head so she can straddle his face backwards, and Sam squirms and cranes his neck already before she’s even settled in, hears her whisper, “Fuck, boy, go for it,” to Brady and he’s sealing his mouth around her clit shortly before Brady gives a first tentative lick to his straining cock.

It’s Brady who grabs Sam’s thighs, shoves them open more. A pleased hum and Sam’s cock pearls out more precome at the sound, has a tongue lapping it away, has Jess’ beautiful weight on top of himself, her breasts grazing his belly and her mouth pressing sweet next to his belly button—so fucking close to where Brady’s mouth is, god, fuck.

He folds both of his arms to hold onto Jess’ ass, pulls her closer to sit on his face for real, laps up against-inside her, lets her taste melt heavy on his tongue.

Brady goes from licking to really opening his mouth now, lets just the tip dip over his tongue, and fuck, Sam is about to lose his mind.

Instead of taking more of Sam’s dick into his mouth though, Brady withdraws, kisses down the shaft until he can lap at Sam’s balls—and then lower.

Lower.

Jess groans and Sam flinches, grips her ass harder when she takes the chance to wrap her lips around his cock now while Brady noses his way from taint to asshole in what feels like way too little time to process that this is happening.

“Don’t come yet,” murmurs Anna as she pulls Sam’s leg up by the back of his knee, basically pins it to his chest so Brady has more room to—fuck.

“Fuck, _fu_ ck.” Sam tosses his head before Jess smothers him (and he lets her), curses against her pussy and hears/feels her giggling on his cock. She’s bobbing her head now but holds the base in a tight squeeze; no chance.

Brady’s tongue tickles over Sam’s hole and Sam himself can feel how he is fluttering; then, Brady laps one broad stripe simply across it, and Sam’s hips hitch.

Jess withdraws her mouth, just keeps him squeezed in her fist. Probably watches how the new guy is taking Sam apart.

The girls did this to him before, he should know what it feels like, but.

Brady is new and different, and.

Brady eats him out with what feels like hunger, and Sam does his best to return the gesture to Jess, rolls her clit under his tongue but he’s stuttering in every breath he takes, trying to escape/hump back on Brady’s tongue. Anna still has his knee pinned, and Brady is still pushing his other thigh out and away. All Sam can really do is hold on to Jess’ ass and try not to come.

 The room is quiet but for their breathing, uncoordinated squelching noises, more of the latter once Brady start fingering around where he’s got Sam speared on his tongue.

The next time Sam has the mental presence to think, he’s stuffed two-finger-fat and Jess is climbing off him, makes way for a wet-eyed Brady who’s kissing Sam’s mouth all warmed up, makes him whimper and clench because what, what is going on. His hand gets grabbed by Anna who squeezes reassuringly, slurs, “Hey,” into her kiss she fits in between Brady’s, hands him the lube they got for this kind of stuff. Sam, in return, hands it to Brady.

“I—I didn’t bring a…”

“Just don’t get it on the girls,” Sam croaks, and the girls and him never talked about this; they never before got into the situation where protection would have been necessary.

Brady’s heavy and still grinding his fingers into Sam’s ass. He takes a deep breath before he tries for a last time, “You sure?”

“Crystal.”

He’s lightheaded. Should have eaten more today, probably, but he didn’t know it would work out this well, that this would progress this fast. He rolls to his side and gets his belly cupped, his neck kissed, hitches his knee up and arches his back so Brady can slip up behind him, fit himself into comfort and Sam.

Sam opens his eyes to find Anna lying in front of him, face flushed and eyes glassy and turned only halfway so she can keep fingering Jess. She’s smiling, sweet and deeply satisfied, hums, “You should see yourself right now,” and Sam’s vision goes blurry with tears.

Brady is done lubing up his cock and starts pressing in, and Sam gasps, flinches his legs up-closed, hears at least two people shushing him, feels two mouth kissing him (face and neck and ear and collarbones) and then Brady’s got the first inch or so in and it burns, it tingles; it’s everything Sam never wanted to admit he was craving.

Anna’s lips drown out his whimpered, “Please, please,” but Brady hears him, kisses him better, shoves deeper.

Once more, Anna gets a hold of Sam’s leg, pulls it up and thus pulls Sam open, and Sam clamps down and squirms.

Brady spills various curses and Sam’s name into the wild mess of Sam’s hair once he’s buried to the hilt, just keeps himself there even though Sam is whimpering for more, tries circling his hips but doesn’t get nowhere with Anna and Brady keeping him still.

“Shit, fuck…”

Sam is strung like a bow, back arched so deep he can almost feel the head of Brady’s cock bumping somewhere behind his navel. Once Brady starts moving for real, Sam stops existing, barely is aware of whose hands are whose, who is milking his nipples and who’s stroking his cock, whose mouth he is kissing and where his neck is craning.

He comes to Jess swallowing what Brady fucks out of him, throat tight and Sam can’t feel his toes, yelps when she nibbles and Brady keeps slamming into him like some animal, like a machine, before he comes too, so warm and deep it’s scary all over, shocks Sam with how irresponsible this is, that next time they shouldn’t, and god, he so so wants it exactly like this again.

Anna takes a seat on Sam’s mouth, Brady now just a warm passed-out weight next to Sam while he takes care of what the girls left him, exhausted beyond the point of no return but this, them, this is all he needs and wants, his family, his everything.

It’s like dancing, like training—there is no concept of time, of ‘too much’. All or nothing.

~

Brady kisses him awake to ask where the bathroom is. They cuddle up when he’s back, dicks on half-mast but they both are too exhausted to do anything. Plus, they don’t want to wake up the girls.

Sam traces Brady’s lips with both his thumbs and Brady just holds him.

“I liked it. A lot.”

“Me too.”

More kisses, short smacking noises, a sated, nasal sigh from Sam. He searches for Brady’s eyes. “We can. I mean, if you want…”

“Yes.”

Sam’s smile explodes on his face. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Oh, I know.” Brady touches their foreheads against each other. Eyes closed, he’s smiling, too.


End file.
